The Hawke in the Rain
by Beast of Burton
Summary: Heroes are not born. They are crafted by the cruelty of the world, dashed upon the rocks until they are no longer a man or woman, but a weapon of change meant to bleed a new world from the old. Come and bear witness to the this hero's tale. Rated for violence and language.
1. Prologue: Drown

**Author's Note:**

Having just graduated with my second degree, I'm avidly avoiding the responsibilities of real life by spending most of my time reading and playing video games. Here's what happens when I mix the two.

The title and chapter names in this story come from the poem 'The Hawk in the Rain' by Ted Hughes. The world and characters herein are all Bioware's, I just play with them. Reviews are always appreciated, and if you like what you see feel free to check out the other stories I have up on this site.

Happy reading.

* * *

You all know the tales, heard them ceaselessly since you were naught but babes. The epic of the Warden, the whispers of the Witch, the sordid start to the Templar war on magic. You've dreamed of all the heroes, the battles, the moments of glory that raised us all from darkness. You and all your kin know these things as well as your own stories, but tell me now.

Do you know how these pillars of man were wrought from souls as mortal as your own?

Heroes are not born into this forsaken world. We offer them up a sacrifice to history, men and women to be tossed upon the pyre until the heat of our disdain and the pressure of loss warp and hone them into weapons of change. Before the statue with the iron gaze there was a beloved second child of the noble house of Highever. Before the blackened rubble littered the highest hill of Kirkwall there was a mage's daughter who held her broken family above all else.

The story of the Warden is not mine to tell; for that you must seek out the Seeker. But I know how the world crafted the Champion of Kirkwall.

Listen, now, to the moments between the fateful battles. To the grief that hardened her soul. To the hatred that sharpened it against the world. To the love that tempered it enough to show mercy. For beneath the gilding and grandeur of the great tales, there was the story of a woman.

Listen, now, my brothers and sisters. Listen and see how the world can shape a tool of war from blood and earth. Delve beneath what you deign to know of the night Kirkwall burned. Let the truth fill up your lungs and take this pain as your own. Feel the silence of it press down upon you, the weight of a world in collapse, and take a measure on your own shoulders. Listen well and learn path that led us here, so that we all may divine a way forward through the chaos.

Listen, now, for this is the story of Abigail Hawke.


	2. The Drumming Ploughland

**Chapter 1: The Drumming Ploughland**

On Abigail Hawke's eighteenth name day, the world came to an end.

She spent the day singing and drinking and fucking with wild abandon. The pretty little camp follower proved to be quite a workout, but by the time Abigail sent her on her way with a smile on her face and a noticeable tremble in her knees there were still _hours_ to kill before sundown.

The party in the mess was a sight to behold. Men and women from neighboring battalions snuck in to partake of the festivities before they could be corralled by the officers. Many soldiers, Abigail included, wheedled at the quartermaster until he allowed them to cash in a week's worth of liquor rations for the celebration. They sang songs of love and lust and triumph, danced until the ancient stones beneath their feet began to shake. Even her dour, broad-as-an-ox little brother joined in the drunken revelry.

And why shouldn't he, she thought to herself as she swaggered back to the barracks with ice-cold water tricking down the back of her tunic. They were soldiers in a winning war, well fed and well paid. They could finally keep their mother and sister in some semblance of comfort. The name Hawke was, at long last, on the right side of the law.

The hardened leather she buckled across her body was still stiff, creaking when she rolled her shoulder and flexed her arms. The Therin crest embossed in brightest red over her breast filled her with a strange sense of hope and pride. She shook her head vigorously to clear out the last of the alcohol's influence and fished a band of fabric from the bottom of her pack and pulled it down around her neck. Her oldest lucky charm, the remnants of the woolen coat she wore as a girl on the day she first took down a bird with her father, had seen her through ever victory thus far and would surely see another with the morn.

For tonight they were but soldiers, and tomorrow they would be _heroes_.

She grabbed slung her bow over her shoulder, clipped her quiver to her belt and sheathed her knife. The drums were beginning to thunder and the sun had finally sunk fully behind the ruins of Ostagar.

She thought little of the dull, orange glow taking hold on the opposite horizon.

* * *

The tide of monsters was endless. She had gone through of her supply of arrows twice over, been forced to lift ammunition from her fallen squad mates, to rip the blackened, twisted shafts from their _flesh_ just to keep the 'spawn from successfully scaling the wall. If the signal fire wasn't lit soon, they would be overrun.

Underneath the burning in her shoulders and the tight awareness born of fear that prickled at her skin, Abigail was _furious_. This was to be the final triumph of King Cailan's war, the last, fetid breath the darkness the dwelled beneath the earth. This was not the promised battle. This was a massacre.

Out of arrows and out of breath, she leaned back against the support wall and swiped the rain and sweat from her eyes. High above her head in the middle distance, a fire sprang to life in the gloom. She could have wept with relief, pushing herself towards the edge of the slick, bloodied ledge to catch sight of the reinforcement battalion. They were there in the distance behind the battle, steel knights glinting darkly against the black forest.

They were there, and they were receding further into the night.

"_**No**_!" she roared, the sound dying to a whimper as the sole other archer fell to the stone in a gurgling heap beside her. She had seen the signal fire, seen it with her _own eyes_. They were abandoning those still at the keep to slaughter. Her brigade. The Wardens. The fucking _King_.

The instincts of survival tore down her arms with old, well-learned speed. She pulled the sodden strip of wool up over her nose and mouth and lurched towards a cleared ladder. When she reached the ground, something threw her hard against the wall.

The beast loomed over her. It stank of rotting meat and ancient magic, snapping towards her face with its lipless, yellowed grin. She struggled against the gauntleted arm pinning her to the stone, wedging a hand to the small of her back and whipping her knife towards the creature's neck. It stumbled backwards, spurting ink-black blood.

She screamed as splash fell across the bridge of her nose, feeling hot as boiling against her skin. Wiping furiously with gloved hands as her eyes watered with pain, she swallowed down the terror rising up her throat and took off into the chaos. With luck and skill, she managed to slip from the battle without any further contact.

A mile down the muddy path beaten by the reinforcements' retreat she heard a single set of heavy footsteps squelching in the earth. She bared her knife and held her breath as a knight pitched towards her. She could have laughed with joy when he ripped off his helmet to reveal Carver's disheveled head. She fell to her knees, thanked her father for his tenacity, thanked the Maker for his safety, and emptied her stomach all over the road.

"Oh, thank the Maker," he wheezed, pulling her up into an iron embrace as he stumbled before her. "I couldn't leave you, sister. Teyrn Mac Tir ordered the retreat but I couldn't leave you to those _monsters_. I couldn't." He whispered it like a prayer, over and over again even as his head dropped against her shoulder. She smoothed over his hair as he began to weep.

She could have wept, too. For their comrades. Their _future_. But she did not have that luxury, had not had it since the day their father died. She was the eldest, and the burden of survival was hers to bear. They had fought for as long as they could.

Now it was time to run.

* * *

It took a week to return to Lothering, crawling through the brush to avoid the Imperial Highway. Carver had ceased speaking to her, preferring to stew in the impotent rage of being cheated out of yet another life. Abigail could understand his feelings, even abide them when it became apparent that his will to carry on was irrevocably intertwined with them, but she was at her wits end by the time they blew into the run-down farmhouse that had been their home for seven long years.

Their mother Leandra and sister Bethany had been told by the royal army that Abigail and Carver were lost in the battle of Ostagar, and fell upon them hysterically when the realization of their survival penetrated the grief that had hung over the house for many days. The story was told, the betrayal laid bare, and the family Hawke prepared for the road yet again.

The meager offering of the army's death pay would barely get them to the shore. As remiss as Abigail was to return to her first trade, they needed more coin if they were to escape the Blight. She moved quietly through the town, slipping into one group of frenzied farmers after another until she reached the Chantry. She waited until the chanter scurried away to calm the rabid wailing of the local doom-sayer before she approached the donation box.

"I'll have to ask for forgiveness later, Maker," she muttered under her breath as she popped the lock. "I need these a hell of a lot more than you do right now." The box was almost empty, but from weight alone she could discern ten crowns and three sovereigns. When she tried to withdraw the money a gauntled hand clamped down around her wrist.

She felt the blood drain from her face as she twisted around to see her captor. It was a woman, tall and fine featured with a dirty bandage tied down over one eye. The other was a steely blue, regarding her with lethal sort of silence that chilled Abigail down to her bones. It took a moment to realize that she had seen this woman before, sitting off with the solemn-as-stone Wardens at the edge of camp. She'd had two eyes then, and the shield of a well-known house.

"M-milady Cousland, please, I can expl–"

"You were at Ostagar," the Warden interrupted, voice roughened as if by smoke. "You were an archer on the wall." Abigail nodded frantically, glancing between her own hand and the Warden's face. She released the coins to a noisy series of _thunks_ on the bottom of the wooden box. The Warden released her hand.

Abigail turned on her heel, ready to flee for her life when the Warden laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Milady, I beg of you. I saw what happened; the fire, the retreat. I had no choice but to leave my post, I have to protect my family, I –"

She was interrupted again, this time by the weight of a rough canvas money bag being forced into her hand. Her eyes went big at the feel of it. That was no less than fifty sovereigns.

"Take this and leave here. Do not stop until there is an ocean between you and this place, do you understand me?" the Warden asked, staring down Abigail with that terrifying eye.

"Yes, milady; thank you, _thank you_ a thousand times." The Warden's expression seemed to soften as she released Abigail.

"Go on then," the Warden ordered. "Take care of your family. May the Maker watch over your path." To her dying day, Abigail thought she never ran as fast as she did away from the Lothering Chantry.

"Abby, whatever's the matter?" her mother inquired when she burst through the door. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I may have, but she bloody well gave us our lives," Abigail panted as she dropped the bag of money on the kitchen table.

"Pack everything you can carry. We're going to Gwaren."

* * *

"Captain Vallen!" Carter called out in surprise as they peaked another blackened hill. Abigail watched a fearsome looking red-headed woman take the head off a grey-skinned monster before she glanced towards them. Another of the 'spawn rose up behind her, a broadsword towering above its head. Abigail's arrow found its eye before it could tighten its ropey arms to strike.

"Hawke?" the captain panted as she wiped the sweat from her eyes. "Maker, but the world is small. I was told you were dead, soldier." Carver walked up to her with a grim smile, grasping her forearm in a show of respect. "You should have known I was too stubborn for that, ma'am."

"Is this your family, then?" the captain asked, nodding at the rest as they approached. Carver nodded sharply. "My mother Leandra, my twin sister Bethany, and my elder sister Abigail."

"A flock of Hawkes, as it were," Abigail quipped as she shook the captain's hand. The captain failed to restrain a short, sharp laugh. "I am Aveline Vallen," she said in introduction, "I trained many of the new recruits for Ostagar, your brother included."

"A distinct pleasure, I'm sure," Abigail supplied with a grin.

"We're likely to last a little longer if we move forward together. Three soldiers for three civilians," Aveline said as she wiped the blood from her sword with a grimace, the faint spark of comforting humor suffocating under the weight of the circumstance.

"Are you traveling with someone, Captain?" Carver asked as they edged along a crag in the rock. Aveline paled visibly. "My husband, Wesley. He's...he's been injured."

The rounded the corner to see an armored man crouched back against the cliff face, a hulking brute of a 'spawn towering over him with blade bared. The beast was too well armored to fell with a single arrow, and Abigail knew the blade would fall before Carver could cover the distance.

"Bethy, give us a hand," she asked firmly, drawing and aiming for a weak joist by the creature's neck. She felt the sudden loss of moisture in the air, the burst of cold rush over the space above her shoulder, and watched as the spell connect soundly with its target. When she saw the tell-tale fingers of ice splinter up across the armor, she released.

Instead of the gratitude she expected to see on the ashen face of Wesley Vallen, Abigail found only hatred when Aveline helped him to his feet. Then her eyes fell to the flaming sword embossed upon his breastplate.

"_Apostate_," he hissed, trying to raise his shattered sword as he stumbled towards them. Rage and terror burned beneath Abigail's skin in equal measure as she placed herself between her sister and the templar, wordless signaling Carver to guard their mother.

"Maker, help me; if you take one more step towards her I will ensure there is not enough left of you for the pyre," she snarled.

"The Order dictates..." he ground out, trying in vain to shake the captain off his arm.

"Wesley, please," Aveline entreated, the softness in her voice enough to startle Abigail away from her blinding fear. "They saved us. The Maker understands."

The templar looked as if he wanted to quarrel with the words, but his broken body went slack against the captain as he relinquished his stand. "Of course," he sighed, glancing warily over at Bethany as he allowed himself to be lead forward.

"We must hurry," Aveline said with the authority of an officer, taking point on the motley party. "Their numbers have only grown thicker the further south we go, and we will be forced into the Wilds if we do not move with haste."

Abigail sheathed her knife, tarrying for a moment despite her brother's glare as he shepherded their mother forward.

"Is it wise to trust them, Abby?" Bethany asked quietly. Abigail cast a weary smile over her shoulder and reached down to grasp her sister's hand.

"It seems we have little choice in the matter," she replied, nodding in the direction the others had disappeared.

"Come along, now. It seems as if the mountain flattens out up there."

* * *

Had it only been a day? Abigail wedged herself further into the dank corner at the thought, grinding her teeth together against the wave of nausea and grief. Every time she closed her eyes she saw her failure played over and over. Felt Carver jerk away from her half-hearted restraint. Heard the wet snap of his spine as the monster cast him aside. Smelled the rank, hot copper of his lifeblood muddying the earth.

Every time she opened her eyes, it all became real once again. She could feel the heat of her mother's grief and hate from across the gloomy hold of the ship. See Aveline crumpled against the hull, tracing over a bloodstain on her arm that was all that remained of her husband. Taste the sorrow of every man and woman crammed down there with them, stripped of their homes and their nation.

Abigail closed her eyes again, squeezing the amulet in her fist hard enough to draw blood. To think that a bloody legend had swooped in to save them all from sharing Carver's fate. The Witch was terrifying, more so as the tall, disdainful woman than the ancient dragon. To act as a courier in exchange for the safety of what remained of her family seemed a simple trade to make, but Abigail could not shake the edge of dread that pulsed darkly beneath the layers of exhaustion and self-loathing.

"Abby?" a small voice asked beside her. She glanced up to see Bethany crouch down beside her, eyes red-rimmed and face still streaked with dirt.

"You should be with Mum, Bethy," Abigail admonished quietly, giving Bethany a sad half-smile before curling back into herself. She stiffened when she felt a gentle pressure on the back of her shoulder.

"Mum's asleep, and I want to sit with you." Abigail could hear Bethany swallow before she continued, feel her shudder. "Please, Abby? I'm so scared."

Abigail was helpless to relent. She twisted around and draped her arm over Bethany's shoulders, rested a hand in her sweat-stiff hair. "I'm sorry," Abigail whispered as her eyes began to sting again.

"We all are," Bethany mumbled into Abigail's shoulder. "I should have been faster, Mum shouldn't have said all those awful things."

"She was right," Abigail interrupted sharply. "I let him die. I left him for those _vermin_ to devour. Our _brother_. It should have been me. It would have been better-"

"Stop it," Bethany hissed, smacking the flat of her hand against a bruise on Abigail's side. "Without you the darkspawn would have taken us all, you _know_ that. You pulled Aveline back from the edge when Wesley..." She barely stifled a sob. Abigail stayed silent and held her close. Guilt boiled like acid beneath her skin.

"I need my sister, Abby. I need you to tell me we'll be alright."

"I can do that," Abigail murmured, pressing a kiss to Bethany's forehead. Every bone in her body ached with her failure, but she could still do something to soothe some of the pain she had caused. "I doubt it will happen anytime soon, but we will be someday. I'll take care of us."

"We have to take care of each other," Bethany protested as she shifted to meet Abigail's eyes. "You can't carry all this yourself. I want to help." Abigail's heart broke a little at that, at the sister who was still but a girl with wide eyes and skinned knees in her mind's eye asking for the weight Abigail sought desperately to bear alone.

"We always did make an excellent team," Abigail conceded with a shadow of a smile. The response seemed to satisfy Bethany, and they fell into the hypnotic silence of the sea rocking against the hull.

"What do you think Kirkwall will be like?" Bethany asked sometime later, the words slow and sleepy. Abigail had not thought that far ahead yet.

"I'm not sure," she sighed as Bethany fell asleep on her shoulder.

"It can't be worse than this."


	3. Weightless Quiet

**Chapter 2: Weightless Quiet**

One year hence, the sisters Hawke found themselves wandering through a market on the fringes of the city slums.

"_Abby_," Bethany whined plaintively as they passed another stall that smelled strongly of spices and roasting meat.

"_Bethy_," Abigail mocked in a matching tone.

"But I'm so hungry! And if I have to eat another bowl of Uncle's stewed cabbage I may vomit." Abigail smothered a grin at her sister's dramatic plea, letting her arm brush against the side of the structure and palming one of the smaller pasties when she was sure the vendor's attention was elsewhere.

"We must be grateful, Bethany," she said in her best scolding voice as they rounded another corner. "Uncle Gamlen has opened his home to us for over a year now, asking nothing of us but to listen to his incessant moaning about everything under the sun. And clean up after his drunken mishaps. And fetch him from the brothel when he finishes embarrassing himself."

Bethany laughed, a rare and wonderful sound in those days. When they cleared the market Abigail presented the stolen pie with a flourish, grinning at Bethany's squeal of delight.

"So where are we going, anyways?" Bethany asked through a mouthful of food. "And the only reason I shant scold you for pilfering this is that the shopkeeper is a terrible little man."

Abigail gave her sister a rakish wink. "We're off to the Hanged Man. There's an errand that needs doing outside the city, and I thought we could use a little company."

"Why not ask Aveline?" Bethany asked suspiciously.

"Her patrols are very late in the evening these days; she needs all the rest she can get."

Bethany's eyes narrowed further. "You just want to see Varric's Rivaini pirate friend again, don't you?"

Abigail clutched her heart dramatically. "You wound me, sister! Isabela is an accomplished knifeman, a valuable asset for our defense against the wilds beyond the city walls. The insinuation that I would only seek her company merely to convince her to bed is simply _shocking_."

Bethany snorted and smacked Abigail on the shoulder. "I'm just saying, if you get to bring along your conquest _du jour_, I should like to have the Warden with us."

"Anders?" Abigail asked, failing to restrain a look of disapproval. Something about the man set her teeth on edge. His intensity bordered on the fanatical, and his regard for life limited to a startlingly narrow range of his fellow man.

"What?" Bethany huffed. "He's wonderful! He spends all his time helping people down in Darktown, and he's so talented and handsome..."

"We will discuss this later," Abigail interrupted sternly as they came to a stop before the public house. Even in that hour long before sundown, it was already thrumming with business. A group of drunkards were crowded around a figure at the bar.

"And then he said, 'That's not a breastplate, that's my _wife_!'"

The crowd exploded into laughter, spilling ale and whiskey all over the dirt floor. Through the rabble Abigail caught sight of the storyteller, a square-jawed dwarf with a charming grin directed right at them.

"Hawke, Sunshine!" he called out, hopping down off the barstool and walking their way. "What brings you ladies to this fine establishment?"

"Why, the simple pleasure of your company, Varric," Abigail grinned as she shook his hand. She pulled a small bag from her belt with her off hand and slipped it into a pocket in his coat. He glanced down with a sharp eye.

"Five more sovereigns, eh? Must have been a good week."

"One of my better ones, I have to admit," Abigail disclosed with a smirk. "Another month like this one and we'll be back from the Deep Roads in time for First Day."

"From your mouth to Andraste's blessed ears," Varric sighed, taking another swig from the flagon in his hand. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he waved over the barkeep.

"Let's have a drink to celebrate, on me. I even managed to get Corff to save you a barrel of that cider you liked so much, Sunshine." Bethany was still adjusting to her nickname, but she glanced hopefully to Abigail at the offer of a free drink.

"Maybe just one," Abigail conceded. "We need to get on the road shortly, and I need your help with an errand."

"Are you sure you want _him_, sweetness?" a voice purred in her ear. The warm, unmistakable shape of a woman pressed lightly into her back and the air filled with the smell of wine and salt and sex.

"I suppose it _could_ use a woman's touch," Abigail flirted back, turning around to find herself pinned to the bar at the hips. "Always a pleasure, Bela."

"_Always_," Isabela echoed with a salacious smirk. There was a glint in her gold-brown eyes that spoke to Abigail, a spark of competition for dominance. Inevitable as it seemed, the challenge of who would end up bedding whom was exceptionally entertaining.

"If you two are _quite_ finished," Bethany interrupted primly over the rim of her glass, "perhaps we could discuss what we must accomplish today?" Isabela rolled her eyes before winking at Abigail, take a step back and crossing her arms over her ample chest.

Abigail sighed and took a drink of the bitter ale that had been placed on the bar before her. The amulet burned against her skin with the heat of guilt and grief she had held down each day since their flight from Ferelden.

"We need to go to Sundermount. I owe a delivery to a clan of Dalish."

* * *

It was hard not to smirk at the hunters as they allowed the Abigail and the others to pass on to the path up the mountain. The Dalish were a proud people, brought up in a largely justified air of spite against the race of men, and the young and strong among them tended to be vocal in their loathing. Abigail had picked up a working understanding of their language in her youth, on long trips with her father into the Brecilian forest to hunt and trade. To remark upon the jibes and slurs the hunters thought they would not grasp was uniquely satisfying.

The Sabrae's Keeper was a pleasant exception to the glowering distaste that seemed to follow them through the camp. She was kind and respectful, genuinely delighted when Abigail offered the traditional greeting to a clan elder. Her requests were straightforward, if strange. To send away her First, her only trained successor, for something as simple as disagreement felt like less than the whole truth of the situation. The feeling soured in Abigail's stomach as they climbed.

"So where is this girl, Hawke?" Varric asked over the grinding of the gravel beneath their feet. "This place gives me the creeps. Better than swatting off raiders like flies on the Wounded Coast, granted, but there's something off about this whole mountain."

"Calm your luscious chest hair, Varric" Isabela rolled her eyes even as her hand lingered by the hilt of her belt knife. "It looks like there's someone up around the bend." There was indeed a figure ahead of them, crouched over something on the ground. Abigail let her foot land heavily on a dry stick in the path, the sharp _crack_ shattering the eerie silence of the mountainside.

The figure revealed itself to be a young elven woman, who shot to her feet with a muffled shriek at the sound. Abigail did not fail to notice that she tucked a small object into the band of cloth around her waist before she braced a staff defensively over her chest.

"Creators, you startled me!" she yelped in the common tongue, glancing between the four of them. "You must be the human the Keeper was expecting. _Anethera_." Abigail found the girl's brogue nothing less than delightful.

She crossed the distance between them as the girl lowered her staff. With her most dashing smile, Abigail lightly grasped the girl's hand and brushed her lips against the knuckles.

"And you must be the First," she replied in elvhen. "Merrill, isn't it?"

"It-it is!" Merrill stammered with wide eyes and reddened cheeks. "How did you know that? Oh, wait, I suppose the Keeper must have told you. What's your name? Unless that's very rude of me to ask; I've never met a human before so I don't know how private you are with your names. I didn't know humans knew how to speak our language, either! Where did you learn? Oh, no; that's probably rude as well. I'm sorry, I'm rambling, I should probably stop talking."

Abigail hesitated before replying, trying to orient herself in the flood of questions. In the silence, Isabela spoke up from behind her.

"You are just the _cutest_ thing I have ever seen," she gushed, sauntering over to examine Merrill closer. "Look at those big green eyes. Oh, Hawke, say we can keep her?" Merrill looked confused and vaguely alarmed.

"Where do you see a hawk?" she asked uneasily as Isabela circled her. "Not the bird, Kitten, the little archer over there who was flirting with you so shamelessly," Isabela laughed as she tossed Abigail a knowing smirk. "She's Hawke. And over there is her sister Bethany. The dwarf with the gorgeous crossbow is Varric, and _I_ am Isabela."

"It's, um, lovely to meet you all?" Merrill glanced back over at Abigail with a pleading expression.

"Down, Bela. You're scaring the poor girl," Abigail chuckled, reaching up to pull the amulet from around her neck. The sight of it brought on an unexpected rush of acidic memory.

"Like she said, I'm Hawke. I was told to deliver this to your clan." She clenched her jaw against the rising bile and pressed the trinket into Merrill's hand. "Your Keeper told us to escort you to the top of the mountain so that you might use it in some manner of ritual."

Merrill looked concerned by Abigail's abrupt change in demeanor. "Of course," she replied, tucking the amulet into a pouch on her belt. "It shouldn't take long at all. Are you alright? You turned very upset all of a sudden. Did I do something wrong? I'm terribly–"

"There's nothing wrong, Merrill," Bethany interrupted, placing a steadying hand on Abigail's shoulder. "That thing just brings back memories of a very difficult time for us. If anything, you're helping us all by taking it."

Merrill still looked uncertain, but nodded over at the path the led further up the mountain. "We can follow this to the summit," she said. "You should be on your guard, though. The mountain is restless."

Isabela and Varric led the way, falling back into an easy, bravado-laden banter. Bethany gave Abigail's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before following after them. Abigail took a moment to compose herself, stringing her bow with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. She looked up when she felt eyes on her.

Merrill had tarried as well, watching Abigail nervously. Abigail rolled her shoulders experimentally and nocked an arrow before looking over.

"Lead the way, _lethallan_," she said with what she hoped was a disarming smile.

From the look of the delight that overtook Merrill's expression, she judged it a success.

* * *

Abigail yawned widely as she wandered into the Alienage. There was a time when she wouldn't have dared ventured out so close to sundown, but these days her reputation preceded her on the streets of Lowtown. To think that all it took was a few bloodied thugs in a few well-known corners of the undercity.

The elves largely ignored her as she passed through the square. A few made eye contact, their expressions varying from grudging respect to active disapproval. That incident with the Magistrate's mad son had endeared her to the community more than most, but the newest tenant of the often vacant shack in the farthest corner had renewed their distrust.

Elves of the city thought little of their Dalish kin, holding them to be arrogant and naïve to the ways of the world. The old ways had long since eroded under the constant weight of poverty and disease, the elvhen tongue lost to the hateful words of man. All that remained betwixt the two was a shared mistrust of the world beyond their homes.

Abigail reached a wooden door streaked with mismatched layers of fading paint. She knocked soundly, smiling at the muffled sounds of scurrying in the dwelling behind it.

"Calm yourself, Merrill. It's only me," she called out.

"What a terrible thing to say," Merrill panted as she finally succeeded in tugging the swollen door out of the splintered jamb. "You're much more than an 'only' you."

Abigail chuckled as she edged into the shack. She was a little surprised to find herself immediately tackled into the wall with an enthusiastic hug.

Merrill was taller than Abigail by several inches, slender and angular in the manner common to elves. Delicate in a way that made the sturdy mass of bone and whipcord Abigail knew her own body to be feel clumsy and off-balance. She smelled of dusty parchment and damp earth, and her voice was small in Abigail's ear.

"I can't believe you still come to visit me," she mumbled.

"Well, someone has to make sure you spend at least some of your money on food," Abigail joked as Merrill pulled back. "Is that _another_ new book I see on your table?"

Merrill had the decency to look at least slightly chagrined. "I couldn't help myself; there are just so many books in Kirkwall! Varric taught me how to haggle with the merchants, so I even had some money left over from our last errand. I think I still have some bread and cheese if you want some. Just water to drink, though, and I think something's off with the well again because it's rather bitter tasting."

"I suppose we're lucky that I happen to have this, then," Abigail pulled a wineskin from her belt with a grin. "Why don't you shut the door and put a candle in the window and I shall make us some supper. Then, you can tell me _all_ about why you missed the last two meetings at the Hanged Man."

Merrill's little kitchen was dark and rather bleak. Abigail found a largely whole loaf of bread that had to have been several days stale and a rind of cheese covered in a rather unappetizing layer of mold. She frowned to herself and felt among the pouches of her belt for any kind of substitute. A few strips of dried meat and bricks of trail bread were left over from her last venture outside the city.

"I wish you would come by the tavern more often," Abigail sighed as she reentered the main room. "You worry me when you're so busy that you forget to eat." Merrill's were downcast, her expression guilty as she filled two mugs with wine.

"I don't mean to cause you worry, _lethallan_," she said sadly, sitting down next to Abigail rather than across from her. "Thing just seemed to be more difficult for everyone when I was there, so I thought I might be of more help by staying away."

"Why on earth would you think that?" Abigail asked sharply. "Who told you this? Anders?"

"No, no, no one said anything to me," Merrill held her hands up defensively. "I just...I know I make people uncomfortable. With the blood magic."

Abigail winced. The day they returned from Sundermount Bethany was partway between terrified and furious at Merrill's use of the forbidden magic, learned from a dark, inhuman presence from beyond the Veil. Many of the crew of companions Abigail had acquired in the last months were unsettled by the knowledge, but none more so than the former Warden. A potential ally, an escaped slave from the Tevinter Imperium, had outright refused to associate further with them because of it.

"We can talk about it, but first you should eat," Abigail said firmly. She gnawed half-heartedly on one of the hunks of bread as Merrill ate, watching Abigail nervously from the corner of her eye as she did. When the last of the meager meal had been consumed Abigail rose from the table, grabbing the new book with one hand and Merrill's with the other.

The back room was dark as pitch, so after sitting Merrill down on her bed Abigail lit a candle on the side table. She turned and offered her the book with a slight frown.

"I don't know much about magic. It was always something of a curse in my family, this dark, mysterious thing that plagued my father and Bethany. I've held her through nightmares of the Fade, and I trust her knowledge of it. She tells me this deal you've made for the blood magic will end in ruin." She sighed and scratched the back of her neck.

"But I trust you, as well. You're quick and brave and you know right from wrong. You've done nothing but help me since they day we met, which is more than I can say for a lot of people. You've more than earned my confidence, and if you tell me you can handle this, I'll believe you."

Merrill met her eyes with a very serious expression.

"I can handle this, Hawke. I won't let you down."

Abigail nodded resolutely, a long ignored weight upon her chest at last eased. She sat down on the floor beside the bed, leaning her head back against the thin mattress. "Alright."

Further conversation made of lighter, gentler words fell still on the tip of her tongue. The constant struggle for paying work was more exhausting than it was rewarding, and the sense of urgency had done nothing but heighten in the last weeks. She was within a few sovereigns of meeting Varric's investment in the expedition to the Deep Roads. Just a few more jobs, a few more handfuls of scraps and she would make her family wealthier than their wildest dreams.

But in that moment, in the stillness and quiet of a safe room with trusted company, she could barely remember it all. Merrill had begun to read again. The room was warm and dim, the rasp of parchment soft and hypnotic, and Abigail was so, _so_ tired.

As she fell asleep, she thought she felt a hand ghost over her hair.

* * *

The surf crawled weakly up the jagged shoreline, darkening the white sand to a dull, listless tan. Abigail sat just beyond the reach of the water and watched it ebb and flow around the rocks and wrecks in the bay as she regained her breath. The bloodstains on her skin were still wet and growing colder.

Heavy, booted footsteps hissed thickly in the sand as someone drew close behind her. The tension of battle was still taut beneath her skin, but she held down the urge to strike when the scuffed iron of a guardsman's boot came into view.

Aveline sat down heavily beside her, an impressive feat in a uniform of plate and chain. She wordlessly passed Abigail a waterskin and joined her in staring out to sea.

"Where are the others?" she asked after a time, watching the water she had splashed on her face drip pink onto the sand.

"Varric and Anders have left for the city to collect our pay. Merrill and Isabela are seeing what can be collected from the dead." Aveline looked over to her with a solemn sort of concern.

"Are you well, Abigail?" she asked haltingly. Abigail allowed herself a grim smile, unused to hearing her given name even from this woman who had remained so close to her since their harried meeting.

"I am uninjured, if this is what you mean, but I am not well," she replied, feeling the fear and hatred billow again through her chest. "I've loathed the way the Chantry treats mages all my life but that...that was something I've not imagined in my darkest dreams." She looked over to Aveline with tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

"How could the oxmen do that to one of their own people? How could he be so devoted to the people who fucking _mutilated_ him that he would rather take his own life than live apart from them? I don't understand, and I'm not sure I ever want to. But all I can see when I close my eyes is Bethany in his chains, Bethany _burning_."

"What the Qunari do is not ours to understand," Aveline said firmly, laying a gauntled hand on Abigail's shoulder. "But you have done well protecting her. Bethany is a smart, capable woman, due largely to your influence. She can protect herself from most things, and we will keep her from those which she cannot."

She was so confident, so stalwart in her belief that Abigail could not help but to relax. As hard as she may have tried to bear the full weight of the horrors they had seen since that day in Lothering a lifetime ago, Aveline never allowed her to struggle with it alone. It was a blessing she had not appreciated enough, though she grew to more and more with each day that passed.

Faint noises of speech and movement drew their attention down the coast. Isabela and Merrill came into view, walking where the ocean met the land. Merrill was not paying attention to her footing as she chatted and tripped over a stone submerged int the water. She laughed at herself as Isabela pulled her from the shallows, the sound of it clear and bright even in the distance. Abigail smiled.

"I'm glad to see you moved on from the Rivaini whore before you caught something," Aveline said with amusement. Abigail looked over at her sharply, fumbling for a defense. "What? I mean, that is, I...I have no idea what you are referring to."

"Eloquent," Aveline chuckled wryly, patting Abigail heartily on the back before looking back out to sea. Her voice drew serious as she changed the subject.

"This was the last job, wasn't it? We've enough money for the expedition now."

"We do. Fifty bloody sovereigns," Abigail sighed.

"There won't be enough supplies for all of us to accompany you."

"You're right. I suppose I should count myself lucky that the Viscount thought a holiday in the Deep Roads would be the perfect way to season his new Guard-Captain, shouldn't I?" Abigail grinned. "I shall enjoy calling you 'Captain' again."

"You and I both," Aveline replied with a small, proud smile. "With Varric along we should have enough for one more."

"A mage could be of use."

"Anders would be the superior tactical decision," Aveline pointed out sternly. "Wardens bear the taint, can sense the 'spawn long before we can sight them. He also has a good deal more combat experience than Merrill or Bethany."

Abigail frowned. "You aren't wrong, as much as I should like to protest. But it's not his readiness to fight that I doubt. His demeanor has been...unpleasant towards me as of late."

"He is a useful ally. You would do well to try and mend your friendship with him. Men can be dour when they are turned away, but I have faith that time and experience will right things."

"And you wonder why I prefer the company of women," Abigail snorted. "But you're correct, as per usual. We'll bring along our wayward Warden."

"Why ever are you dallying with Lady Man-Hands over here when you could be enjoying a lovely walk on the beach with us, Hawke?" Isabela asked with a smirk as she and Merrill came upon where they were sitting. Aveline let out a harsh cough which sounded suspiciously like the word 'slattern', to which Isabela narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

The exchange was lost on Merrill. She offered Abigail a hand up, her brow knitted with concern. "Are you alright? You look unhappy again."

When she was once again on her feet, Abigail released her hand with a squeeze. "It's certainly hard to stay that way when you're around," she replied with a wink. She shrugged off her padded coat and wrapped it around Merrill's still damp shoulders.

"If you two are any sweeter I shall be physically ill," Isabela chortled as she turned back towards the town with Aveline in tow.

Abigail noticed nothing beyond Merrill's shy smile.

* * *

"That is a beautiful specimen you've chosen there, messere," a cheerful dwarf with a braided beard piped up behind Abigail as she examined a sturdy belt knife. "Full tang Dwarven steel with just a touch of lyrium dust folded in, lovely workmanship. One of my favorite finds on the road, if I do say so myself."

"Probably a little to lovely for my blood," Abigail admitted ruefully, thumbing the curved tip of the blade. It split her skin easily, almost painlessly, and she watched a bead of that blood roll down to the hilt.

"Nonsense," the dwarf fussed, fishing out a strip of cloth from his belt pouch and offering it to her. "You're young Master Tethras' investor, are you not? Consider it a gift. Just remember old Bodahn Fiddic for all your salvage and armoring needs."

"Messere Fiddic, I couldn't," Abigail protested.

"No, I shant hear it. I insist. It's the least I can do to thank you for your help in this expedition." Just as Abigail was about to launch into a multitude of thanks, she heard her name being called from across the Merchants' Square.

She bid Bodahn thanks and farewell and crossed the distance to those who had hailed her. "Has everyone come to see me off, then?" she asked with a puzzled smile as she embraced her mother. Bethany stood beside her, back straight and tall, lips pressed thin.

"I came to see if you would finally see some sense, Abby," she said stiffly. "I have as much right to go on this expedition as you do. You're treating me like a bloody child and I won't –"

"Bethy, Bethy, please," Abigail interrupted, stepping close to her sister and gripping her shoulders lightly. "If I still thought of you as a child I would be insisting that you come with me. You must understand that this is not something I want to do, but something I have to. As profitable as it is likely to be, I could be gone for _months_. Someone has to keep an eye out for Mum while I'm gone, and you are the only person I would trust to take care of her."

She tucked a lock of hair behind Bethany's ear with a proud smile. "You're all grown up now, little sister. As much as I want to bring you along, I need you to stay in Kirkwall and take care of our family. It's a far more important job than gallivanting off after buried treasure, and I trust you to do it better than I do myself." Bethany looked a little stunned by the speech. Their mother looked near tears with relief.

"I...alright," Bethany stammered. "I can do that."

Abigail grinned and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You shant be alone, though. Will she, Bela?"

"Of course not," Isabela drawled with a smirk as she came upon the family. "Little Hawke and I will tear up the town while you're scurrying about under the earth. I doubt we'll even make it through all the festivities I have planned. So many purses to cut, so little time."

Abigail raised an eyebrow at the statement. Before she could comment, she felt a slight tug on the fabric of her coat.

"Hello," she said with amusement at the sight of Merrill over her shoulder.

"Hello," Merrill echoed as Abigail turned to face her. She looked even paler than usual, wringing her hands and glancing everywhere but at Abigail as she started to speak.

"I wanted to wish you well on your journey. I, um, I also wanted to tell you something, but I'm not sure how start. Isabela suggested some things that I'm not sure I entirely understood, and the ones I did I'd rather not do in the middle of a market, but I feel it's very important that I tell you what I want to tell you before you leave in case something terrible happens while you're gone, Creators forbid. I just...I..."

Abigail was smiling widely when she interrupted. "Merrill," she said quietly, reaching out to rest a hand against the side of Merrill's long neck, thumb pressed gently to her jaw. "It's alright."

A thousand thoughts flashed across Merrill's eyes; confusion, hope, elation, and finally a strange, wavering resolution. She reached out decisively and grabbed two handfuls of Abigail's lapels, pulled her straight, and kissed her soundly on the mouth.

Unexpected as it was, the contact was sweet and ardent. Warm and laced with the barest hint of desperate fear. It was over almost as soon as it was started, and it left Abigail dazed.

"That's quite an effective way to say that," she murmured, brushing her hand against Merrill's cheek. Merrill remained silent, her eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

"It seems we'll have quite a lot to talk about when I get back," Abigail added with a sly smile, leaning up to quickly kiss Merrill once more before she stepped back. She could hear the restless clamor of the expedition party preparing behind her, feel expectant eyes upon her back. With a grin and a wink she bowed dramatically before her family and friends before turning on her heel to join the gathering.

In the near distance Varric eyed her with a smirk of approval. Aveline was as solemn as ever, but a barely restrained smile edged up the corners of her mouth. Anders was glowering. Abigail found herself unable to care strongly about any of it, distracted by the excitement crackling down the skin of her arms, the tangible promise of things to come.

Everything was about to change, and the future was her's to lose.


	4. A Hallucination in the Streaming Air

**Chapter 3: A Hallucination in the Streaming Air**

Memories of the Deep Roads never held clear in Abigail's memory. Rarely did they convalesce into more than flashes of hunger, fear, and the inescapable, all-consuming darkness.

Sometimes, in the silence of sleep, they became more. The proud boasting around a cheerful campfire, the unfocused smile of a strange little dwarf child, the easing weight of a friendship being rebuilt. Clear nights would hold memories of their success, the glitter of golden mountains or the first breath of clean, damp air as they breached the surface once again. Other nights were less kind.

Those dreams held the low and constant drone of monsters growling in the black. The grating of iron on stone. The unearthly stench of burning lyrium. Half-remembered creatures of flesh and magic lurked at the edge of her dream-vision, which remained forever focused upon the slow, steady closing of a sepulchral door upon a holy place lost to the ages.

On the worst of nights, she relived what happened after.

The terrifying darkness faded into the damp grey of the Marches in winter. Relief became a balm to her rage-burnt throat. They had escaped not only with their lives but with the unimaginable wealth she had barely dared to hope for. With the rough haul safe with Varric she could finally, _finally_ go home with her head held high.

Instead of her mother's arms and her sister's smile, she opened the door upon the scene of her oldest nightmare. The sounds of frantic grief and the desperate crush of fear would echo across the years in Abigail's lowest moments. The sight of her mother crumpled in the dirty corner of Gamlen's house, of the steel hand wrapped too tightly around Bethany's arm, of the flaming sword that had loomed above them since before their births broke Abigail into nothing more than glassy shards of inhuman wrath.

She lunged at the Templars, honed by the months of hunting monsters beneath the earth. Those same months had left her half-starved and battered, and they beat her into the wall with the slightest of efforts. Bethany cried out, begging for them to stop.

The arms that pulled Abigail from the ground were thin and shaking, the shoulder her head fell again soft. Bethany's voice was a tearful whisper in her ear. "Please, Abby," she begged, "Please, stop. It's done." Abigail tried to protest, tried to find the strength to shove Bethany behind her and take up the fight once more. Bethany simply helped her to her feet, tucked a lock of blood-stiff hair behind Abigail's ear with a sad smile.

"I'm so glad you're alive. Please take care of Mum. I'll be alright."

Abigail looked over to the soldiers; saw that one of them was the young captain whom they had helped with off-the-record jobs in their early months in Kirkwall. He met her eyes with a stiff nod, stepped forward to grasp Bethany's arm with a gentler hold than his companions. They left without another word.

One of the helmeted Templars stayed behind, tossing meaningless, menacing words at Abigail. Speaking of the trials Bethany would endure in the Circle. Threatening their _mother_. Abigail spat at his feet. He brought his metal fist into her face.

On the worst of nights, Abigail woke feeling as though she were drowning in her own blood.

* * *

The sensation of drowning followed her powerfully to consciousness, leaving her choking and sputtering and violently confused. The water dripping from her hair was frigid, and it steamed when it dripped on to the hearthstone. When she managed to pull a full breath of air she looked over her shoulder to see Aveline sitting stiffly in a wooden chair, an emptied bucket on the floor by her feet.

"Your mother couldn't wake you," she explained without prompting. "You smell like a brewery and look like a drowned rat; one can hardly blame her for fearing you had passed on in the night."

"Fuck off, Aveline," Abigail spat, lurching unsteadily to her feet. The blessed numbness of drink had long since abandoned her and the world was little more than blurred shapes and colors through the nauseating pain. She stumbled and retched, managing only to heighten the pounding in her head and the churning in her stomach. When Aveline walked over to help her stand, she struggled against the armored hands.

"What part of 'fuck off' was unclear to you, _captain_?" Abigail sneered as she found herself manhandled into the washroom. Aveline ignored her entirely, dragging her to a stop before the too-clean stone bath filled with now tepid water.

"You are a grown woman and I shan't undress you, but you would be well advised to clean yourself up. The Viscount has asked for you by name and we will be leaving to meet him in two candle marks." Abigail scoffed weakly as Aveline turned to leave. She stared down into the water that was cleaner than what she _drank_ for most of her life and glistening with clean-smelling oils and glared at herself, eyes drawn to the bloodscar from the 'spawn at Ostagar now emphasized by the well-healed crook of her nose.

"Abigail..." Aveline trailed off from the doorway, her voice soft and pained. "You've been doing so well lately. What's happened to make you do this again?"

Abigail wanted to hold on to her anger, her spite against the world and everyone in it, but she was so tired. In so much _pain_, old pain that ripped open far too often.

"Today is the twins' name day," she answered hoarsely, striking out at her reflection in the water. "Carver would have been...Bethy is twenty today. And they still won't let me see her. She's never...I've never, I..."

She hunched over the edge of the bath, sick with grief and rage. The uncomfortable shifting of steel and cloth betrayed Aveline's continued presence. "I...I understand," she said quietly. "Just, take your time, alright? I'll find something suitable for you to wear."

Abigail nodded at the water, started peeling off her sodden, stained nightshirt. The water was soft and almost warm. It burned at her scars.

* * *

Even after more than a year of residence in the Amell's ancestral estate nearly everything about Hightown still set Abigail's teeth on edge. Something about the simpering fools in draped in silk and finery, milling about the Viscount's Keep as though there weren't thousands upon thousands in the city below breaking their backs to earn enough bread to live to see tomorrow. Every good was overpriced, every would-be noble looked upon Abigail and her mother with haughty disdain. The ones with manners held their contempt to their gazes. Others called her 'The Ferelden Cur' when they thought her out of earshot.

The day was slated to be hard enough _without_ this nonsense, she thought bitterly to herself as she and Aveline descended the marble stairs from the Viscount's office. The man himself was easy enough to deal with, though any more talk of 'influence above her station' and she would be forced to introduce him to exactly what kind of influence encouraged her to escape Lowtown.

"How do you want to go about visiting the Arishok?" Aveline inquired, tugging Abigail away from her acerbic contemplation. Abigail shrugged, frowning at the alien pull of soft leather and clean linen over her shoulders. "Haven't the foggiest. Who's to say the oxmen actually remember me? That business with the slimy dwarf and that rotten gas of theirs was what...almost two years ago? Maybe I just had the most memorable name among the hoards of undercity scum." Aveline made a noise of thoughtful sound of agreement, scratching at her chin as they were swallowed by the hot, humid air outside the Keep.

Abigail sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Before she could make the turn towards her mother's estate an unseen hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, yanking her back into the shadows cast by the grand columns of the square.

Even in the flash of blindness brought from such abrupt movement, the instinct of violence propelled Abigail's body into motion. She managed to free her belt knife and make glancing, copper-scented contact with the assailant's skin before her head cracked against the stone wall and startled her into stillness. By the time her vision had adjusted the attacker's identity was clear.

"Maker's hairy _ballsack_, Bela!" she hissed, trying unsuccessfully to jerk out from the weight pinning her to the wall. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Just shut up and listen, Hawke," Isabela hissed with uncharacteristic panic in her eyes. "Merrill has gone and done something really, _really_ stupid. You have to go to the Gallows. Now."

"What in the bloody Void are you talking about?" Hawke demanded, at last succeeding in shoving Isabela away as Aveline circled back upon them. Isabela wiped angrily at the new cut dripping blood down her arm.

"Varric and I have been organizing bribes among the Templars for weeks, trying to get you in to see Bethany so you can stop trying to pickle yourself and finally get back to business. Everything was set up for today until I got word last night from my contact that the last man had an attack of conscience and refused the money. Merrill overheard and kept going on and on about how it had to be today and I...I ignored her." Isabela looked furious with herself and started stalking about the shadows, scraping her knuckles against the wall.

"I ignored her like I always do and when I woke up this morning, the money was gone. I _know_ she's gone to try and seal the deal in person, I just know she has."

"Do you mean to tell me that Merrill, the unregistered Dalish elf and _blood mage_ is alone in the _fucking _Templar barracks?" For a long, painful second Abigail couldn't so much as breathe.

Then she started running.

* * *

"I don't know what to tell you, messere. I know only that my employer was insistent that meeting take place this afternoon. Is there any chance I could speak to–"

"That's _Ser_ to you, knife-ear," an irritated male voice snapped as Abigail lurched over the top step from the docks. She huddled behind the back of a statue and tried desperately to regain her breath as she assessed the scene.

Merrill was standing before an older, harried-looking Templar who was scouring a long sheet of parchment. She was dressed as a servant, simple, sun-bleached clothes that hung awkwardly off her angular frame. There was a burlap bag clutched tightly behind her back. Her staff was nowhere to be found.

"Ah, here it is. Hawke." The Templar frowned deeply before glancing back at Merrill. "Mage Hawke isn't yet a year past her Harrowing. Who did you say your employer was again, girl? And, come to think of it, show us your papers. Won't do to have elves just wandering about willy-nilly." He tucked the parchment back into his belt and took a step towards Merrill, reaching out to grip her arm when she fumbled for a response. The color drained from her face at the first touch of steel upon her skin.

"Alright, Abby," Abigail said to herself, running a hand over her face and straightening her jerkin. "Showtime."

Pulling herself to her full height, Abigail walked calmly into the square. "Would you mind unhanding her, terribly?" she asked in a bored voice as she came upon them. "I've just broken that one in, and I'd much rather save the time of training a new servant." The Templar dropped Merrill's arm immediately, startled by Abigail's intrusion.

"My apologies, Serah..."

"Hawke," Abigail supplied with a disinterested smile, taking a possessive hold of Merrill's elbow and pulling her back several steps back. "You'll have to forgive her; she's rather absentminded. Please rest assured that her registration is well in order. I made an appointment with Knight-Captain Cullen to receive a special exemption to speak to my sister, Bethany Hawke."

"That's...that's rather unusual," the Templar stammered. "Most families of repute would rather forget their consignments to the Circle."

"Your family name is Lory, is it not ser?" Abigail cut in a little too sharply, pulling a banker's receipt from her belt pouch. "Your sister and her daughter run the lovely little import stand near the Docks. It seems such a pity that goods, and women, of such quality be hidden amongst the rubbish down there. Why don't you pass this cheque along when you see her next, so that she might brighten up Hightown with her wares?"

She ripped her signature across the paper in the most indecipherable manner possible and forced it into the Templar's hand. He went slack-jawed at the number.

"Th-this is very generous, Serah Hawke." He pocketed the cheque quickly and glanced around the square for any sign of his brother knights. Abigail stiffened reflexively when he leaned in to whisper near her ear. "I can't get you anything private, but I can allow ten minutes supervised in the square. You alone, though; your girl will have to leave. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Quite," Abigail said quietly. "She's needed back at my estate, regardless. Would you allow me a few moments to discipline her before you retrieve the mage? Spare the rod, and all." The Templar nodded, tapping the side of his nose before turning to enter the hall that housed the Circle of Magi.

Abigail dragged Merrill behind that statue at the foot of the square and embraced her fiercely. "_Maker_, Merrill. I don't know if I want to strangle you or kiss you."

"I'd much rather the second, if I get a say," she replied with a shaky smile. Her face still held a deathly pallor, and she seemed to wobble on her feet when Abigail released her. "Isabela wouldn't listen to me; you had to see Bethany today. Name days are very important to...Elgar'nan, I don't feel well."

"I'm not surprised," Abigail muttered as she led them out towards the docks. "Templars flash their armor in magebane. It dampens the connection to the Fade and can make powerful mages very..." She trailed off when Merrill jerked away from her and vomited on the marble walkway. "Very ill," she finished softly, running a hand up and down Merrill's back.

"Listen. Bela's down at the far corner with a dinghy; get to her and let her take you back to the house in Hightown. Get some rest and I'll see you again before sunset." Abigail leaned up and kissed Merrill on the forehead. "_Ma'arlath_, you beautiful fool."

She saw Merrill around the last corner then returned to the square. She paced around nervously until the great doors of the Circle swung open.

Her knees nearly buckled at the sight of long, unruly black hair so like her own.

* * *

If there was one thing to be said about nights in Hightown, it was that they were unnaturally quiet. In the darkness of Lowtown there had always been noise, the call a whore plying her trade, or a muffled scream of a bandit exacting his own. Abigail had often been drunk beyond the point memory at this time in past months, and she remained wary of the stillness after that miraculously strange day.

Her mother had retired for the evening, delirious with joy over the news. Isabela and Varric had fallen asleep draped over various pieces furniture in her study after having raided her store of Antivan brandy in celebration of their successful scheme. Merrill continued to sleep off the effects of her ill-planed adventure, her head resting against Abigail's leg. And Bethany was...Bethany was _fine_.

Maker, she had almost seemed happy, Abigail recalled as she stared into the embers. She was a little too pale, the exhaustion beneath her eyes a little too deep, but she had smiled and laughed through the tears of their reunion. The mages had accepted her with open arms. She spent her days in a library Abigail could not even imagine the scale of. She was helping to teach the children of the Circle how to master their gifts. She was as close to finding peace as Abigail had ever seen her.

With luck and leverage the visits could be made more regularly, and coin was in near endless supply in those days. The burden of guilt and self-loathing had fallen from her shoulders once again, and in its absence she felt almost weightless.

A low murmur of pain and confusion drew her attention downward. Merrill's eyes had opened, bleary and unfocused.

"Hello," she croaked.

Abigail couldn't help but smile. "Hello, yourself. Are we feeling better?" Merrill frowned slightly, shifting her arm to hold her hand above her face. She twisted her wrist around. As she flexed her fingers, lightning arced between. "Oh, _yes_," she breathed in relief. "Much, much better."

Abigail rarely had the chance to see magic practiced so closely. The touch of it in the air was faintly familiar, but somehow deeply different from the feel of Bethany's practice. It made the hair on her arms stand on end, and without thinking she reached out to touch it.

She yelped when it made contact with her skin, the buzz of it not quite painful but strange beyond description. Merrill extinguished the spell with a giggle, pulling herself to sitting with her side pressed close to Abigail's.

"No one's ever done something quite so wonderful for me as what you did today," she said quietly, letting a hand rest on Merrill's knee. "Or so remarkably, inescapably, undeniably _foolish_. You must promise not to do something like this again."

Merrill frowned, but covered Abigail's hand with her own nonetheless. "I will not promise that," she started, giving Abigail's hand a warning squeeze when she took a breath to interrupt. "You've done foolish things for other people all the time, to help them even when you've been so unhappy you didn't want to leave your house. Helping Varric find his mad brother, helping those mages who got caught by that bounty hunter. Even helping that fellow in the market find his book! You do all these wonderful things for other people and I just...I want to be the one who does wonderful, foolish things for _you_."

She turned her head and smiled sheepishly. "Though, this time, Isabela and Varric did all the work. I just came in to muck everything up at the end." Abigail found herself beyond words for a few moments, taking the time to trace the pattern of dark ink that swirled over Merrill's pale face.

"I love you, Hawke," Merrill breathed. "Let me be to you what you are to me." Abigail smiled and kissed Merrill deeply.

"I think we're past the point where you should call me by my family name," she said with a little smirk as they parted. Merrill looked thoughtful as she pressed herself even closer to Abigail's side. "I know, but Abigail doesn't seem to suit you as much. And only your mother and Aveline seem to call you that, and only when you're in trouble for something."

Abigail snorted, unable to contradict the observation. She hesitated for a long moment, certain that the weight of what she was about to say was not palpable to anyone but herself. "What about Abby?" she offered. "Does that suit me?" Merrill's expression was unreadable.

Without warning she twisted around, her lips now close to Abigail's ear, and whispered the name in the lowest, breathiest of voices. The little laugh at Abigail's sudden stiffness was far less innocent than the one she shared with everyone else.

"Yes, _ma vhenan_," she said softly as she stood, pulling a still stunned Abigail to her feet.

"Abby suits you perfectly."

* * *

Abigail slammed into the cobblestones, the air gone from her lungs and the taste of blood thick in her mouth.

"Andraste's tits, Aveline. Was that really necessary?"

"It certainly was, Varric," Aveline replied, working her shoulder joint stiffly under her hand. "If Hawke is going to insist upon traipsing about the town at night like some sort of vigilante, she will go through the same rigor of training that my guardsmen do. I have standards for those who protect my city."

"I think you should give her a break," Anders chimed in, leaning over Abigail with a poorly concealed expression of deep affection. She wheezed her thanks as he helped her back to her feet. "She uses her own time and resources to help those who cannot help themselves. Who could ask for a better protector than that?"

Isabela chortled from her perch on the garden's outer wall. "We should have a little agency. 'Hawke Investigations: We Hope You're Helpless.'" Aveline scoffed and rolled her eyes as she made her way over to an orderly pile of steel armor resting against a flowering tree.

"Why don't you make yourself useful, whore? Get Hawke cleaned up and armored; we'll be sparring with blunts next." Abigail groaned aloud at the mere thought of it, sagging dramatically against the retaining wall. Anders seemed as if he wanted to protest the assignment of the task, but Varric quickly engaged him in some terrible exchange of war stories as Isabela hopped back to the ground and manhandled Abigail back to her feet.

"Come along, you great lug. I've a bone to pick with you, anyways."

"Just one?" Abigail grunted as she dropped onto a hard bench in the back foyer. Isabela disappeared for a moment, returning with a set of old, well-maintained leather armor.

"One of pressing import, at least," she replied, dropping the armor in Abigail's lap and crossing her arms over her chest. "What, exactly, are your intentions with my Kitten?"

"My intentions?" Abigail repeated with a bemused smile. "I find myself having some alarming flashbacks to the many farmers' daughters of my youth." Isabela snorted, sitting down beside Abigail when she bent to lash the armor to her leg.

"I'm serious, Hawke. She's a good girl; lovely, gentle, kind...and living in a world full of people like us." Anxiety soured the back of Abigail's throat.

"She can take care of herself, I know that. But she's a proud one, our Kitten. She wants to help, but she'll take none herself lest you make her." Isabela looked very seriously at Abigail. "I know you love her, Hawke, but there are responsibilities to loving someone like that. There can't ever be a repeat of the last year. Your life won't be the only one that's ruined by the time you're done."

"I know, Bela," Abigail said with a grim smile. "You're good to look out for her, but I know. It's far past time I got my head out of the sand and keep watch over those still left to me. There's still good I can do here. And I believe I still owe you a boat."

"Ship," Isabela corrected with a smirk. "And 'sand' was far from the place where your head was stuck." The sound of the house's rear door creaking open drew their attention. Merrill made her way out, looking tired and puzzled until she saw them. The smile that burst across her face made Abigail feel like she could move mountains.

"Come on, champion," Isabela grinned as she hauled Abigail back to her feet. "Let's go show her how close Big Girl can get to grinding you into a paste."


End file.
